A hard-working cowboy knows how to build a life from the most barren soil. And he has to have enough grit to defend it from those hell-bent on stealing it . . .
With nothing keeping Jim Heston tied to Texas, he treks northwest to California, determined to carve a life out of the untamed and often brutal wilderness. In the shadow of the Sierra Mountains, he builds a ranch, until an unforgiving winter wipes out his stock. With jobs sparse in the small nearby town, Jim turns to hunting to keep fed, only to stumble upon an even more elusive prey: gold.
Cord Bannen makes his living parting miners from their hard-earned gold, hoping to find a motherlode instead of the small, scattered nuggets he and his gang steal. And when he spies Jim exchanging gold at Bidwell’s Bar on more than one occasion, Cord believes he’s finally struck it rich.
But when Cord threatens Jim’s family, he learns the hard way that all that glitters isn’t gold. For Jim Heston depends on another type of metal to protect those he loves—the double-barreled kind that spits lead with bad intentions . . .
Seven Hours Till Dawn
A Jim Heston Western
By Carson McCloud
Pinnacle Ebook
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Copyright
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2024 by Carson McCloud
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First Electronic Edition: July 2024
ISBN: 978-0-7860-5036-9 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
As a boy in South Texas, Jim Heston had rarely seen snow. What little had fallen usually coated the ground enough to leave a few tracks and little more. It came seldom and never lasted more than a single day.
In Kansas and over the great western trail, he’d seen snow aplenty. Out on the plains, it came not from the sky alone but flying sideways, driven by relentless winds so that tiny, jagged flakes scratched and scraped against any exposed skin.
High up in California’s rocky Sierras, the snow was like nothing he’d ever seen.
From the door of his barn he watched flakes the size of double eagles sail down, so fast and thick that he couldn’t see the surrounding mountains. He could barely make out the cabin despite it being less than fifty feet away. A faint wind from the north sent the flakes down at a distorted angle, and staring too closely at them gave Jim a strange sense of vertigo.
Three days it had been snowing like this. Three days and the long drifts had piled up almost six feet deep. Three days and the storm still showed no sign of stopping.
It’ll be up to the cabin’s eaves if it holds to Sunday.
The barn creaked under the weight of so much snow. Jim wasn’t particularly worried about it. Not yet anyway. He’d built the barn himself from lodgepole pines he and David, his father-in-law, cut just up the valley. The logs hadn’t seasoned properly—there had been no time for it—but they would hold.
The Barton-Heston clan had arrived in California in the summer, settling in what they’d named Donovan’s Valley, in honor of the wagon master who’d first discovered and later shared it with Jim.
Donovan called it his hidden valley. Jim recalled how his friend would get a longing look on his face whenever he spoke of it. More than anything, Jim wished he’d had the chance to come here with Donovan.
Unfortunately, a gang of outlaws made sure he never saw it again.
Fall had been short, offering just enough time to get the cabin up and caulked tight against the coming winter. With help from the family, Jim and David had built the barn after the frost came.
Jim saddled his Appaloosa and set out into the snow. Thirty-seven head of cattle wore his HB brand now, and he needed to see to them. The cattle represented his family’s future in California, the start of what might someday become a great herd. Jim bought them from travelers or local ranches. Ellen had bottle-fed some of the smaller calves who’d lost their mothers on the trail.
